Girls, Guilty but Somehow Glorious (15 page)

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27

WEDNESDAY 4.58 p.m.

I resort to the occult

Matthew turned to me and raised his eyebrows slightly. ‘Is this part of the session?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I said, heroically concealing my total fury at the way Chloe was acting, ‘I think Chloe would really like you to escort her to the Ball. Is that right, Chloe?’

‘Yes!’ said Chloe. ‘Please!’

‘Er . . . OK, thanks, fine . . .’ said Matthew, sounding massively uncertain about the whole thing. ‘But . . . uhhh . . . I thought your name was Africa?’

‘That’s her professional name,’ I said quickly. I felt as if I was acting in some dire reality TV series written and filmed in hell. ‘Her real name’s Chloe.’

Matthew looked impressed.

‘Do you think I should have a professional name?’ he asked me, in his laborious tortoise-like way. ‘I’ve always sort of fancied Brad. I don’t really think I am a Matthew, if you know what I mean? Do you? Do you think I’m more of a Brad?’

I managed, with a supreme effort, not to tell Matthew what I thought he was.

‘No, no, Matthew!’ I insisted. ‘Matthew is heaps more stylish than Brad! Anyway – Brad, Africa, whatever – you two guys just sort out the details of your forthcoming trip to the Ball, while I fix us a drink!’ I produced a really bitter, stinging grin and went out to the kitchen.

How could Chloe just lose it like that? Asking Matthew to take her to the Ball when we hadn’t even discussed it? What if I wanted him to go with me? After all, I’d been the one doing all the door-opening and life-coaching and hand-shaking, dammit.

I’d lost track of the times her random impulses had cut across plans we’d both agreed on. I was absolutely fuming. My hands were shaking with rage. I put the kettle on. If ever I’d needed a cup of Chloe’s mum’s Serene Clouds Yogi Tranquillity Tea, that time was now.

I stared out of the kitchen window at Fran’s birdtable. Frenzied blue tits were quarrelling over the nuts. How uncomplicated their lives were. I wished I was a bird. But I didn’t feel like a sweet little garden bird. I felt like a huge ferocious eagle hovering above a crag, with bloodstained claws and a murderous beak.

A few moments later, Chloe came in. ‘What do I do now?’ she whispered. ‘We’ve fixed up all the stuff about the Ball, but what’s the next life coach thing he’s got to do?’

I resisted the temptation to swoop down and tear her head off with my tremendous claws. I just flashed my eyes so fiercely they actually hurt, flared my nostrils so wide you could have driven a train up them, and let rip in a homicidal whisper. The kettle was coming to the boil with loads of steam and a menacing rumble. And so was I.

‘Don’t ask
me
what to do next!’ I hissed. ‘Since you always do just what you feel like anyway! I am sick – just totally
sick
of the way you ruin everything. You never listen! You never remember what we’ve agreed on for more than five seconds! You never show any consideration for what I might want! You’re just a total freakin’ nightmare!’

Chloe’s eyes went absolutely huge. She was silenced. In the silence, the kettle came to the boil and clicked. And there was a tap on the door.

‘Come in!’ I yelled, turning my back on Chloe and getting out a couple of mugs.

Matthew kind of edged his way around the door. In normal life I would have worried that he’d overheard, but right now, frankly, I couldn’t care less.

‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Could I possibly use your toilet?’

‘Not toilet, Matthew!’ I snapped. ‘Loo, OK? Show Matthew to the loo, Chloe!’ My mum hates the word ‘toilet’ and I realised that, in my dreadful mood, I sounded just like her off on one of her snobby tirades.

Chloe went out and showed Matthew to the loo. I made two cups of coffee. I was still shaking with rage and my heart was pounding. After Chloe had showed Matthew to the downstairs cloakroom, I heard her go upstairs to the bathroom and lock herself in. What now? A storm of hygienic weeping? A massive sulk? Like I cared.

I carried the coffees into the sitting room and placed them on the coffee table. I didn’t want any. I would never drink again. Or eat. I would just soar in the sky and plummet down and tear the heads off living things. Especially living things that looked a bit like Chloe. Not for food – just for fun.

Moments later Matthew returned. I’ll say this for him, he was a swift urinator. It was a desirable attribute. He should put it on his CV, along with his typing speeds.

‘So . . .’ he said. ‘What next? There’s about . . .’ he looked at his watch ‘. . . fifteen minutes left, yeah?’ I didn’t like that
yeah
. It belonged with
Brad
, the transatlantic identity he craved. ‘Would you like me to come into the room a few more times?’ he asked. ‘Kind of, practise the Meet and Greet thing a bit?’

‘No!’ I cried, almost in a desperate shriek. I couldn’t face the thought of having to talk to him
at all
about
anything
, even in the virtual reality of our earlier pointless session.

For an instant, my mind went blank. Then I noticed Chloe’s mum’s desk. I took a piece of paper from there, and placed it in front of him.

‘Write a short essay,’ I commanded. ‘Just a few paragraphs. Call it “
My aims and aspirations, short-term, medium-term and long-term
”.’

‘Could I have a book to rest on?’ asked Matthew. I handed him one of Fran’s movie stars photo books. It had Marilyn Monroe naked on the cover. I hoped it wouldn’t distract him too much. Matthew turned it firmly over so Marilyn was invisibly sprawling all over his knees. He put the paper down, clicked his pen and started to write.

I was amazed at how he just did everything I asked without arguing. In some ways he would make a much better best mate than Chloe. When had she ever done something I suggested without arguing? All she ever did was lose it, blow it and ruin everything with her stupid impulsiveness.

I decided to have a cup of coffee after all. Chloe was probably going to sulk in the bathroom for at least the next half hour. I poured a little bit of milk in and was just stirring it quietly, trying to calm down, when the front door flew open and Geraint charged in and drove his snout in my face.

‘Hi, Chloe, I’m home!’ trilled Fran, in the hall. ‘Can I smell coffee?
Larvely
!’ She came into the sitting room. ‘Oh, Zoe!’ cried Fran. ‘How
larvely!
Geraint, stop it! Can you stay to supper?’ Then she clocked Matthew. ‘Oh, hello!’ she beamed.

Matthew put his essay to one side, stood up and shook hands with her. I could see him trying to exert the right kind of pressure. He produced a strange synthetic bloodcurdling smile. It kind of didn’t fit him. It was three sizes too big for his face.

‘This is Matthew,’ I said. ‘This is Chloe’s mum. Matthew’s just writing a short essay. We’re working on a project.’

‘An essay?’ Fran sounded intrigued. ‘What – is he doing your homework or something? You’re not paying somebody to do your schoolwork, are you, Zoe?’ Fran laughed raucously. I could tell she was half-enchanted by my business skills.

‘No, no!’ I smiled. ‘I’m Matthew’s life coach! Chloe just asked him to the Ball – so that’s her partner sorted.’

‘Really?’ said Fran. ‘Where is Chloe?’

‘In the bathroom.’ I tried not to sound too grim.

‘I must just go and change out of this top,’ said Fran. ‘It’s as hot as Hades.’

She ran upstairs. I heard her call to Chloe through the bathroom door. I heard Chloe emerge and go into her mum’s bedroom. There was the murmur of voices. No doubt she was telling her mum what a bitch I was.

Fighting off the dog was now top of my agenda. He was licking my neck. I went out to the kitchen and gave him a ginger biscuit, which he carried off to his basket. As I returned to the sitting room, I heard Chloe coming downstairs. Her face was strange and mottled. She didn’t look me in the eye.

‘Which is my coffee?’ she asked.

‘Oh, sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t realise you wanted one.’ I jumped up and headed for the kitchen. Anything to be out of her company for a split second.

‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘I don’t want one anyway.’

There was a horrid tense silence. Chloe went and sat on a chair by her mum’s little table, as far away from me as possible. She pretended to be sorting some papers.

Matthew was still trying to write the essay, resting his paper on the movie stars book, on his knees. I suddenly realised that unless I did something, we were going to be stuck in this wordless torment for eternity.

‘Don’t worry about doing that now!’ I trilled. Matthew looked up, puzzled.

‘But I’ve only just started it,’ he droned. ‘I’m not even halfway through my first short-term aspiration.’ He sounded disappointed.

‘Tell you what!’ I beamed. ‘Why don’t you do that writing project at home? It’ll be easier to concentrate. And we’ll not charge you for the full hour.’

‘Yeah,’ said Matthew. ‘And I’d be able to print off some photos from my archive. My second medium-term aim is to cross Northern Canada with a dog team. I’ve got some quite good photos of the Arctic wastes.’

‘Brilliant!’ I cried, trying not to sound hysterical. ‘I can’t wait to see them!’

Then Matthew packed away his various papers in his briefcase and stood up.

‘What about your coffee?’ I asked.

‘Er . . . I don’t really like coffee, to be honest,’ he said. ‘Or tea. Maybe we could have a session sometime about which beverages to ask for?’

‘Spring water,’ I said briskly. I stood up, and Chloe also rose and kind of pointed at the door in a way which was far from gracious. It was the same gesture she uses to Geraint sometimes when he has been a bit of a nuisance.

‘What about the payment?’ asked Matthew awkwardly. ‘Will you bill me at the end of the month?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘We’ll be in touch soon about your next session. And the Ball, of course.’

I held out my hand. Matthew made a huge effort and squeezed it slightly. After that, he turned his back on me and followed Chloe out to the hall. Rarely have I felt more relieved to part from anybody. If only he would take Chloe with him and disappear for ever.

I carried the rejected cups of coffee back to the kitchen, and tipped them down the sink. Fran arrived, wearing a blouse decorated with green monkeys.

‘Zoe,’ she said. ‘About you having nobody to go to the Ball with . . . would you like me to do a tarot reading for you?’

I jumped at the offer. It would mean I wouldn’t have to speak to Chloe. I knew I couldn’t talk to Chloe without continuing our row, and I didn’t see how we could manage it with her mum there. So Fran and I went to her special astrological table and sat down.

Chloe returned from banishing Matthew into the twilight just as Fran was getting out her cards. She looked exceedingly grumpy.

‘Maybe you could whip up a little supper for us, darling,’ said Fran. Chloe scowled, went off to the kitchen and shut the door with just the hint of a bad-tempered slam. Fran ignored this. She was totally focused on her tarot ritual.

‘Hello, darlings!’ Fran whispered to her cards. She shuffled them, then asked me to pick seven, and laid them out in a strange magicky pattern on the carpet tablecloth.

Geraint stirred on the hearthrug, got up laboriously, wandered over to us and started to lick my knees.

‘Take Geraint out for a walk, Chloe!’ called her mum. ‘I don’t want his vibes disturbing my energies! And don’t forget the pooper-scooper!’

Chloe emerged from the kitchen, looking daggers. ‘I’ve only just started to make the supper!’ she snapped.

‘Don’t argue,’ said her mum, staring at the cards. Chloe heaved a massive self-pitying sigh, put Geraint’s lead on, and went out.

‘Now, Zoe . . .’ said Fran, staring at the cards I’d chosen. ‘Let’s see . . . there’s a misunderstanding with a male person.’ Not exactly earth-shaking in its originality, but nevertheless, true. It must be Oliver!

‘You have to tell him what’s really what, Zoe,’ she went on, peering at me between her thick hanks of grey hair. ‘Otherwise it’ll just be delays, suspicions and misunderstandings.’ She pointed at a card with a picture of a sad-faced moon. ‘The message seems clear,’ said Fran. I was surprised. ‘Sort out this misunderstanding with the young man, and he will ask you to the Ball. Yes?’

‘Oh,’ I said, faint at the idea of Oliver asking me to the Ball. ‘Wow!’ I didn’t have the heart to tell her that Oliver would never –
never
– ask me to the Ball, not in a million years. My aim was far more modest. I just had to try to stop him thinking I was an idiot.

Then Chloe’s mum talked about deals involving large amounts of money, and how I had to be careful because the Queen of Hearts was involved. (Tamsin, clearly). After that Fran said the power of the reading began to wane. Or maybe she was getting bored with it.

However, we ended in quite a mellow mood. The session with Fran had distracted me and calmed me down. But when, moments later, Chloe returned, her face was so stony I could see she was still sunk in deep hatred of me. She was carrying one of Geraint’s gigantic turds wrapped in a plastic bag.